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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28514916">Paris is Burning</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/rowaning/pseuds/rowaning'>rowaning</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Paris is Burning [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Rusty Quill Gaming (Podcast)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Body Horror, Drug Abuse, Gen, Hallucinations, Horror, Poisoning, Psychological Horror, Rusty Quill Gaming Season/Series 02, Rusty Quill Gaming Season/Series 03, Rusty Quill Gaming Season/Series 04, Self-Harm, Sleep Deprivation, Surreal, Torture, i have taken everything bad that happens to oscar wilde and made it worse, just like a bad time for oscar, lots of pain</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 19:41:02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>7</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>10,713</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28514916</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/rowaning/pseuds/rowaning</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of scenes from Oscar Wilde's perspective from seasons 2 and 3, with some spoilers for season 4.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Paris is Burning [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2090691</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>37</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>39</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Poisoned</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Wilde has joined up with his team, just in time to be ambushed by La Gourmand's gnome enforcers</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Contains: graphic description of perspective character being poisoned, dissociation, violence</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The fight is going poorly. None of his companions have taken any damage, but neither have their assailants. Wilde is preparing to cast a spell, an illusion to disorient the gnome facing Zolf, when it happens.</p>
<p>Four more enemies appear, surrounding him from all sides. Its as if they’d just blinked into existence right next to him. Hamid yells out a warning, too late, as his arms are grabbed by the gnomes at his sides. The one behind him pulls a piece of metal over his head and shoves it into his mouth. Sharp points dig into his lips and the apparatus clanks painfully into his teeth as the gnome drags his head backwards. There’s a click emanating from somewhere near the base of his skull, and then all of the gnomes let go. He tries to cast a spell, any spell, something that could help, but his magic fails him. Its as if it isn’t even there anymore, or so far out of reach that there’s no real difference.</p>
<p>As he tries to work through that realization, a numbness begins to spread from the metal barbs cutting through his lips. His vision starts to blur, and the sounds of the fight are muffled as if it were far away, through a thick fog.</p>
<p>There’s a strange lurch, and suddenly the street is much closer than it was before. Right beside him, pressed into his cheek in fact. It should feel cold, and wet maybe. Instead, it doesn’t feel like anything. For some time, nothing feels like anything.</p>
<p>Another lurch, and he’s upright. There’s a loud, sharp voice. Not quite sharp enough to cut through the fog closing in around him. He tries to speak, tries to reach out, but he’s trapped in a metal cage with thorned bars, and his hands bleed where he grabs at them but he feels nothing. The voice comes again, distant and incomprehensible. And then the cage is open, removed and tossed aside, and there’s a warm tingling feeling trickling down his throat and spreading across his chest. There are hands holding him up, a voice he still can’t make out. His eyelids are so heavy but he can almost open them enough to see a blurry shape. <em>Sasha</em>, whispers the small part of his mind that can still think.</p>
<p>Time becomes a series of disconnected flashes. Callused hands touch his face, feel around his neck. An eyelid is peeled back and he catches a glimpse of a grizzled beard and concerned grey eyes, but he can’t seem to focus on them. He hears Hamid’s voice, floating towards him as if he’s at the bottom of a well and the halfling is far above.</p>
<p>There’s a third lurch, almost as rough as the first one, followed by a distinctly uncomfortable sensation in what he assumes is his torso. A loud, shrill and unpleasant voice booms out from somewhere much closer to him, and the discomfort increases as if he’s being jostled about like a sack of meat.</p>
<p>He drifts in and out of this semi conscious state, each time pushing slightly further from lucidity. There’s more motion, a doorway. A wooden floor and a lump of fabric placed carefully beneath his head. Loud voices, an argument maybe. A single cut-off scream. Its all quiet for a while after that, and he settles into a comfortable dreamless sleep.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>The purpose of this fic is to take a snapshot of all the terrible things that happen to Oscar Wilde, then Zoom and Enhance.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Escape</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Wilde and his team try to escape La Gourmand's men through the streets of Paris</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>In this chapter: recovering from being drugged, urban warfare.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Wilde’s sleep is interrupted by freezing cold water splashing down on his head. The callused hands from before are slapping at his face, and a gruff voice is yelling at him to wake up. <em>Zolf</em>, whispers the small amount of awareness in the back of his mind.</p><p>“Hnnggh,” is what comes out of his mouth, the muscles refusing to obey him.</p><p>He tries to open his eyes but can only manage a slight flutter. Zolf’s presence moves away and he can hear a conversation nearby, between Zolf and Sasha, but he can’t make out the words. Sensation begins to return to his body, the slight buzzing that precedes the pins and needles of awakening nerves.</p><p>The conversation starts to get clearer, something about gnomes, and La Gourmand, and him, and of course he can’t teleport but he can’t tell them that because he can’t move his mouth. Sasha picks him up, much more gentle than Bertie but straining slightly, and carries him down a short drop. She sets him down carefully and tucks the rumpled fabric – his jacket maybe?- beneath his head.</p><p>“I dunno if you can hear me, but if you wake up you gotta keep quiet, Wilde. Just keep quiet. We’ll take care of it.” Sasha tells him.</p><p>There’s not much confidence in her voice, but Wilde trusts her. She moves away from him, and there’s a creaking of hinges as the low light of evening is cut off, leaving him in darkness.</p><hr/><p>The conversation outside is muffled by the door, but the thin sliver of light peeking through gradually becomes more focused as Wilde slowly comes to. Suddenly, the sliver becomes a flood as Sasha flings the door open and hauls him out. She shouts at him desperately and he can just barely follow her frantic words. They’re surrounded, La Gourmand’s men, help? He tries to shake off the clinging fog as Sasha leaves him standing there confused and moves towards a slightly open door.</p><p>He tries to concentrate, and reaches out for the Weave, forming the base of an illusion spell. A wave of fatigue passes through him and he loses his grip. He falls to his knees and the magic slips through his fingers. Almost immediately, Sasha is beside him, hauling to his feet and bodily dragging him to the back room of this... locksmith shop?- they’re holed up in.</p><p>Hamid is back here, standing guard by a locked external door. Wilde tries to gather his thoughts. A distraction, what they need is a distraction. There’s too many people outside for a clean getaway, but a distraction and a quick escape might just get them far enough to breathe easy. He tries to cast another illusion, but can’t focus on the image and the magic slips away from him once more. Sasha fumbles at the door and there’s more commotion from the front, whatever Zolf and Bertie are doing must be working. Hamid fires a crossbow bolt-has he always had a crossbow?- and there’s an ear splitting yell as it hits flesh.</p><p>Focus, he needs to focus. A distraction. What’s the most distracting thing he can think of? An image swims to the front of his mind, one that’s annoyingly easy to keep hold of. Gleaming golden metal, loud and obnoxious and extremely destructive. The magic doesn’t slip away this time and he finishes his song, casting the illusion on the street outside.</p><p>Sasha finally cracks the lock on the back door and calls for her companions. The fight in the front room continues. Zolf and Bertie take down their assailant and Wilde’s illusion approaches the crowd outside. He’s bought them enough time to get out, hopefully. There are arrows flying outside the door blocking their escape, and Sasha takes a hit but dodges the rest. He follows the others out the door to where they’re concealed behind a broken carriage and tries to cast another illusion, to reinforce his distraction. Focus eludes him once more, and the tangled threads of the Weave part like waves around his hands.</p><p>Sasha leads them into the streets, moving away from the ambush in an effort to avoid more of La Gourmand’s men. He stumbles as they run, feet still not quite obeying his commands. There’s smoke and fog, arrows flying. Bertie disappears in the ruckus and Sasha falls to the ground while dragging him along. He can’t seem to recall the layout of Paris’ backstreets, and everything is moving so fast and it’s all still a little blurry.</p><p>They had kept asking him what to do and he should know, he should confidently take charge of the situation and get them all out of there safely, but his legs still aren’t moving the way they’re supposed to and his mouth is so dry and its hard to think when the world is spinning around him.</p><hr/><p>He’s in an alleyway with Zolf. The others aren’t with them, where did they go? There’s a commotion on a rooftop nearby, that must be Bertie. At the far end of the alley is one of La Gourmand’s men. He hasn’t noticed them yet. <em>You can do this, Oscar</em>, he thinks. <em>Just a simple Charm Person. You’ve cast it a million times. Of course you can do it. </em>He gathers himself, steadies his breathing, steps out and casts the spell.</p><p>The magic works. Which is to say the spell is cast successfully. Unfortunately the only effect is drawing the man’s attention towards himself. Zolf scowls at him and kicks him in he shin, an extremely uncomfortable sensation when the foot involved is made of water.</p><p>Zolf solves the altercation easily enough- he could be a bit less rude about it but arguing takes time they don’t have- and the others regroup in the alleyway with them. The fog in his mind has mostly cleared, and Wilde explains why they need to leave, now. Guivres is coming to destroy Eiffel’s Folly, and they definitely do not want to be within Paris city limits when that happens. The only viable option for transport is the aeroport, so they head in that direction. Wilde leads, having managed to recall the correct directions.</p><hr/><p>As they travel through side streets avoiding commotion, the storm starts. It’s a massive downpour, almost as obscuring as the smoke form earlier. They’re all drenched, except for Hamid with his magical wardrobe. It’s only a block or so until they reach the aeroport, when they come across a massive open square. There’s a large fight going on nearby, and while the storm may hide them somewhat, crossing a wide open space near open combat is asking for trouble.</p><p>Wilde steps forward with practised confidence. All of the fog has cleared now, there’s no way he can mess this up. And he doesn’t. He casts the illusion, breathing life into sound and image and creating a terror for the nearby combatants to behold. He wavers, nearly losing his footing, and struggles to maintain even breaths. He can barely keep up with the others as they enter the aeroport, and keeping up the major illusion is quickly draining him.</p><p>Zolf shatters the glass wall between them and the airfield, and it barely registers in Wilde’s mind when glass shards flung inwards by howling winds fly past him and slice into his face. He keeps the magic going as long as he can, then finally lets it go once they’re about halfway through the airfield. They should have enough time to get on a ship and get out of here without any further altercations.</p><hr/><p>There’s a scuffle with some gnomes up ahead- what on Earth are those four doing? It’s resolved by the time he catches up but his stomach drops into an anxious pit when he sees the uniforms the gnomes are wearing. It’s fine, just a coincidence, probably. There could be more than one airship captain flying outdated Aeroflot colours. And exclusively employing gnomes. And flying a massive aerial monstrosity of mismatched parts. And wearing that <em>ridiculous</em> hat. At that point, the wishful thinking becomes moot. It’s quite obviously Earhart, and she is not happy to see him. Fair enough, as the last time they’d met he did try to have her arrested for terrorism. And she’s certainly holding a grudge.</p><p>Earhart draws her gun and makes sure he knows that if he doesn’t leave he will be forcibly removed. He manages a quick conference with his team, explaining the situation. He tells them that Earhart is a separatist and to not under any circumstances let her know they work for the Meritocracy. He says he’ll meet them in Prague, at the university. <em>If I get out of Paris alive</em>, he doesn’t say. They’re amenable, despite Earhart’s suggestion of murdering him where he stands. Bertie looks like he’s considering it, but then again Bertie’s made that particular desire of his quite clear.</p><p>It’s surprising when Hamid steps towards him, arm outstretched. He’s half expecting a stream of fire to kill him instantly, but instead the halfling shakes his hand and wishes him luck. Then Sasha slinks up to him and he thinks <em>Oh, now it happens</em>. He’s seen what she can do: it won’t be nice but it will be efficient. He can’t keep himself from flinching when she takes his hand and... also shakes it? And says “Alright Wilde,” and something about flashy stuff and flying an airship.</p><p>Bertie and Zolf give their variably appropriate goodbyes, and Wilde makes his way down the gangplank. Not fast enough, as Earhart’s swift kick to the back of his knees sends him tumbling to the scaffolding below. There’s a sickening crunch and a sharp jolt of pain, his left arm might have broken on impact. But he’s not one to show weakness to an enemy when he can avoid it. So he stands, straightens his back, and walks out of the hangar as if there isn’t any stabbing pain shooting up and down his arm with every step. After reassuring Hamid via Message that of course everything will be fine, and he’ll definitely meet them in Prague, he heads out into the storm once more.</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>This was originally only going to be the poisoning bit, and then I kinda just kept going. I blame Alex for literally never having any downtime, everything in this podcast happens so darn fast.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Destruction</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Wilde is left behind in Paris, and needs to get out before Guivres destroys Eiffel's Folly</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Contains: Violence, major injuries, explosions, body horror</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Wilde stands a bit out of view of the third hangar, under a slight awning at the second one, and watches the airship take off. It’s incredibly ungraceful, a clunky mechanical thing that only makes up for its hideous appearance with power and magical protection from certain weather elements. But he will admit, begrudgingly, that Earhart is good at what she does and as long as his team doesn’t do anything to upset her they should arrive in Prague perfectly fine. He doesn’t need to worry about them, so he turns his attention to worrying about himself. Guivres is coming, and he needs to get out of here. He strips off his shirt, tears it and ties it into a rudimentary sling around his broken arm, then drapes his jacket around his shoulders and leaves the airfield.</p><hr/><p>Making it to the outskirts is his best bet. He has no idea when Guivres will arrive, and getting as far away from Ground Zero as possible seems to be the ideal strategy. Or it would be, if he didn’t need to dodge the urban warfare that seems to be happening down every street he tries to turn on.</p><p>At first he detours, doubling back and taking alternate routes. Then he takes several twisting routes avoiding roving gangs, ducking into alleyways and sprinting for cover. After a few too many near escapes, he realizes he’s completely lost track of where he is, caught up in the Paris backstreets. It’s nearly half an hour before he finally finds a larger road and sees a familiar landmark. Eiffel’s folly.</p><p>Dread rises like bile in Wilde’s stomach when he sees the tower. It’s several blocks away from him, rising above the smaller buildings, but still way too close for comfort.</p><p>He turns tail, sprinting in the opposite direction. Picking streets at random as long as the direction is <em>away</em>. His mind is racing, running the probabilities of surviving another encounter with La Gourmand’s men, and he throws all caution to the wayside. Then he hears the roar.</p><hr/><p>Wilde is knocked to the ground instantly, hands covering his ears but they cannot block out the horrible sound. It’s so loud that he can feel his bones vibrating, his broken arm grinding in on itself. His jaw is clenched so hard that its a miracle his teeth haven’t shattered, and there’s a warm trickle of blood running down the side of his face.</p><p>The roar fades to nothingness, though the vibrations continue for a few moments afterwards. He tries to gather himself, he really does. But he’s on the ground stunned and can’t move his limbs. All he can manage to do is unclench his jaw and groan in pain. At least he thinks he groans, he can’t hear if he’s made a sound.</p><p>Before he can even start to think about a new plan, a new strategy, something that will get him out of this alive and in one piece, the shockwave hits. A wave of force accompanied by superheated air pushes the breath out of his lungs and batters at his exposed skin. He thinks his coat may be on fire, it’s hard to tell when everything is heat and pain and burning. There’s rubble falling around him, buildings collapsing, thick smoke pouring up into the sky. A few pieces strike his back, and he feels some ribs break.</p><p>The shockwave passes, and Wilde struggles to his feet. Paris is burning around him, the road beneath his feet is shattered and buildings are crumbling where they stand. He can’t hear anything, and he’s in so much pain, but if he stays here he’s dead. He shrugs off his burnt, shredded jacket, ties the remaining usable fabric to the equally damaged sling hanging off his shoulder, and tries his best to stabilize his broken arm. Then he starts walking, slow, unsteady steps, leaning on rubble that burns or cuts his hands as he goes.</p><p>He feels the vibrating bones sensation again, but doesn’t hear the roar, and it’s far off enough that he doesn’t get knocked over again. He keeps moving. One foot: up, forwards, down. The other: up, forwards, down. Repeat. He leans on whatever he can reach for support, ignoring the damage it does to his hands. If he stops, he’ll fall. If he falls, he won’t get back up.</p><hr/><p>The smoke is filling his lungs and bringing tears to his eyes but he keeps pushing forwards. Eventually, it thins. There is less rubble here, the street is even and the buildings are intact save for any formerly glass windows. He’s made it outside of the shockwave’s radius. He keeps moving. As many civilians as possible had been evacuated, and official crews won’t start performing searches until the immediate danger is past. He can’t stop. No one will find him if he stops. He’s dead if he stops.</p><p>So he keeps moving, as the clouds part and drift away and the sun makes its way across the sky. He keeps moving as it travels towards the horizon and the shadows around him grow long. He keeps moving as it starts to set in the distance, ushering in the darkness of night.</p><p>Wilde walks along one of the major roads out of Paris. He’s not sure how long it’s been dark, how long he’s been walking for. Then he realizes he’s not walking anymore. There’s cobblestones next to his face, cold and wet. It would be a relief for his burnt skin, if they weren’t so rough. He briefly wonders when he fell down, he can’t seem to remember it happening.</p><p>He lies there, trying to figure out how to move his limbs to stand up. There’s an odd, rhythmic vibration in the ground, getting steadily stronger, and then he doesn’t have to remember how to stand because someone’s done it for him. He’s hauled up, manhandled for a moment, then laid down again on a considerably drier and softer surface. At some point, his eyes must have closed and he can’t seem to open them again. There’s motion, a slight bouncing, and Wilde finally loses consciousness.</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Wilde never did tell them how he got out of Paris. I'm also definitely taking some liberties with the city's layout because I want this to hurt as much as possible without technically being fatal.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Nightmares</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Wilde makes his way to Prague, becoming more and more disturbed by nightmares.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Contains: surreal horror, body horror, violence, torture, psychological torture, drug abuse</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>Wilde is in Paris. There’s blood on both sides of his face, pouring from his ears. He can still hear the roar. It’s the loudest, most horrible thing he’s ever heard, and it reverberated through his skull and echoes through his bones.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>The sky is on fire. It’s been set alight by Guivres’ wrath and it burns with the fury of the Meritocrat. Everything is smoke and ruin. Buildings crumble and melt to glass. The road is like hot coals beneath his bare feet. He cannot breathe. He tries to gasp for air and chokes on the thick black smoke. It seeps into his lungs and digs it’s claws deep within him. It crawls behind his eyes and whispers: You will die here.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Wilde walks. His feet are torn and burned and bloody, and he can feel the pain of every footstep. He reaches out for a wall, something to lean on, but it crumbles beneath his hand. All around him the world is aflame. He can smell his own burnt flesh, can feel the wounds smouldering on his back.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>He keeps walking.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>The shattered road is never ending. His lips crack and bleed and the smoke is a part of him now.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>He keeps walking.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>The burning sky grows brighter, and the smoke grows thicker. A single solid structure looms ahead of him, growing larger as he approaches. Eiffel’s Folly. It stands complete, a monument to a fallen city, ablaze with dragon rage. He is walking towards it, straight to the centre of the devastation. The road beneath his feet turns to glass. He can see the bones of his hands, the flesh burnt and shredded away. The tower stands before him. Smoke fills his lungs and bloody tears fall from his eyes and somewhere far above a great golden dragon looks down on him.</em>
</p><p>Wilde wakes up screaming.</p>
<hr/><p>The nightmares get worse as Wilde makes his way to Prague. He wakes up screaming earlier and earlier, and by the time he arrives at the Prague aeroport he can only manage an hour of sleep before the dreams force him awake once more.</p><p>He dreams of dragons and fire and the great melting monstrosity that was Eiffel’s Folly.</p><p>He dreams of a shadowed, sharp-toothed woman watching her henchmen subject him to torturous metal devices and interrogate him.</p><p>He dreams of Bertie running him through with a rapier, not even worth the effort of the larger sword. He dreams of Zolf holding his head beneath water as he struggles to escape, the dwarf’s eyes full of malice. He dreams of cold steel slipping between his ribs when he least expects it. And he dreams of Hamid, face elongating and skin shifting to golden scales, breathing fire down upon him.</p><p>And he wakes up screaming.</p>
<hr/><p>He’s in a repurposed classroom in Prague University, trying to focus on his paperwork. Trying to plan his next steps. Trying not to let sleep overcome him. His eyes glaze over, he stares the same page over again and again without actually seeing the words. Consciousness slips away without his notice.</p><p>
  <em>He’s in an unfamiliar room. The walls and floor are cold rusted metal. He’s shivering uncontrollably, someone has taken his coat and left him in his underclothes. A woman sits on a throne of twisted iron, flanked by guards. Her eyes are in shadow but her sinister, sharp-toothed smile is in full view. He’s on his knees, arms held painfully behind him in chains hung from the ceiling. There’s a metal collar around his neck, with barbs that dig in and draw blood whenever he moves. He’s cut off from his magic, the Weave is beyond his reach.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>He cannot escape.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>The guards ask him questions. About his work, about the Meritocrats. Strategic questions. Valuable questions. He remains silent. For every question he does not answer, someone behind him turns a crank. The chain holding his wrists lifts higher and higher. They continue asking questions until his shoulders are twisted almost to the point of dislocation and even if he wanted to answer he could not stop screaming.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>The dream shifts. He is chained with his back to a wall. His undershirt has been torn off and discarded. The throne still sits before him. One guard holds a misshapen iron rod, the tip glowing white with heat. The other asks him yet more questions. These are different questions, though. They ask about him. What does he fear most? Can he feel his skin burning with dragon’s flame, even now? Who does he love? How will it feel when they are wrenched away from him and destroyed and he can only watch, powerless to stop it?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>They do not wait for his answers. Every question is punctuated with the white hot iron pressed into his skin. The guard holds it gently, almost caressing Wilde with the burning metal. He screams as it moves along his body, leaving streaks of distorted, bubbling flesh in its wake.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>The dream shifts again, and again. More tortures, each more painful than the last. More questions that he will not answer.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>The sharp toothed woman pushes rusted iron spikes into his arm in a neat row and asks about his team. How well does he know them? What are they capable of? What are their weaknesses? Who do they love? What are they worth to him? What would he betray them for? He cannot scream any more. Blood rises from his muted throat and he chokes on it. Red tears fall down his cheeks and the woman tilts his face up to look at her. He can see her eyes now. They are solid black, and deep within he can see dying stars and a vast, unending fury.</em>
</p><p>He wakes tasting blood, unable to speak, slumped face down on a desk full of now-ruined paperwork.</p>
<hr/><p>There are many ways to go without sleep. Wilde stocks up on potions that ease his fatigue, that sharpen his mind and energize him. Most of those he can purchase from temples and potion shops. A few more... illicit substances are easier sourced directly from the students who manufacture and make use of them.</p><p>The circles under his eyes get deeper and shadows begin moving in the corner of his vision.</p>
<hr/><p>Perks of having a team who already think he’s an incompetent annoyance: they don’t look too closely at the new quirks he’s developed since Paris. He hides them well enough: gliding his hand though his hair to disguise checking the shadows over his shoulder, applying Prestidigitation just a bit too often, scribbling on autopilot to hide how his focus slides away from the conversation happening around him.</p><p>Sasha looks at him funny during their meeting, and he’s half expecting to wake up with his throat slit the next day but she just tells him to get some sleep. He could have retorted, mentioned that she’s not looking too well herself, made some snide comment. He doesn’t. She’d told him not to poke fun at the whole being undead thing, and even if he was a malicious man he’s only got the energy for a- somewhat passive aggressive- “Knew you cared”.</p>
<hr/><p>After they vanish from Einstein’s office, after Wilde wastes several hours looking for them, he returns to his temporary office and slumps on the desk. Going sleepless is beginning to wear at him, but when he tries to rest he cannot fall asleep. Possibly a side effect from the energizing potions he’d bought from that woman doing her Planar Studies PhD. He remembers the nightmares that haunted him and thinks; <em>Just a bit longer</em>. He can manage for just a bit longer, just find his team, finish the job. Then he can sleep.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>The first time I wrote this I tried to find a reasonable way to get Wilde to Prague in 5 days. The second time I skipped all that boring plot stuff and went straight to the nightmares.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Exhaustion</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Wilde follows his team to Cairo, and is plagued by hallucinations</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Contains: surreal horror, hallucinations, self harm</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>By the time he manages to arrange teleportation to Cairo, Wilde has been awake for three days solid. The amount of alchemical intervention required just to keep the words from dancing off the pages piled up in his briefcase in unsustainable at best, and already causing irreparable damage at worst. Some small, faint part of Wilde’s brain that can still think rationally is aware of this. The rest of him is too busy feeling like shit to care.</p><p>The hallucinations start a bit after he arrives in Cairo. Eiffel’s Folly burns just outside of his field of view. A dragon’s roar drowns out the potion seller’s voice, and he has to ask them to repeat themself multiple times. He blinks, and Saira’s face is replaced by a flaming, screaming skull carved of rusted iron.</p><p>He’s in the habit of casting a silencing spell over whatever room he’s staying in at night. It’s not necessary for the original reason he’d used it for, but now it acts as more courtesy than concealment. No need to keep anyone else up with his paperwork, and pacing, and mumbling, and yelling at the spots that flicker behind his eyes when he knows no one can hear him.</p><hr/><p>He’s leaning heavily on muscle memory at this point, barely paying attention to the words coming out of his mouth. Compartmentalization is a hell of a drug, not to mention the definitely illegal concoction he’d poured into his morning coffee.</p><p>Sasha, Hamid and Grizzop glare at him. The newcomer smiles kindly. Her eyes are deep black pits full of hatred. He blinks, shakes his head slightly, and they’re a soft brown filled with warmth and worry. He doesn’t think any of them have noticed how tightly he’s gripping the back of the chair in front of him. How white his knuckles are with the effort of holding himself upright. They just need to get to the carriage. Once they get to the carriage, he can sit. It’ll be fine, They’ll see Apophis, they’ll deal with their business in Cairo and move on. It’ll be fine.</p><hr/><p>He doesn’t pay much attention to the conversation as they ride. There’s a voice, faint and distant, whispering in the back of his mind. A voice that could not belong to any humanoid creature. <em>What would you betray them for? </em>it whispers. <em>Nothing. Never. I won’t and you can’t make me,</em> he thinks. Stubbornness has never been one of Oscar Wilde’s virtues, but pride is his best vice and he’ll be damned if he lets a hallucination keep him from doing his job.</p><hr/><p>Perks of being Oscar Wilde: everyone expects a certain level of flamboyant eccentricity. He’s even jumpier now, flinching at shadows and sudden noises, disguising the motions as slightly juddery not-quite-professional gestures. That earns him a few glares from the staff at Apophis’ residence, but no one takes any further notice.</p><p>He manages to autopilot through most of the meeting with the Meritocrat. Hamid takes the lead and its easy enough for him to stand unobtrusively and look deferential. Or it should be. His eyes keep playing tricks on him. Brass becomes gold, flames erupt around him, phantom pains burn in the scars on his back. He focused on standing still, holding his posture. <em>Not</em> running away. Not running screaming from dragon fire that isn’t real.</p><p>Apophis addresses him. He almost misses it, but catches himself just in time. The conversation swims back into focus. Oh. Oh that’s... Ok yes he did say that about his team but really, he says a lot of things. At least that one he actually remembers saying, he’d dropped it into his request to have his team meet Apophis. Not false, necessarily. Just not an opinion he wanted his team to be aware of. They’re much easier to manage when they think he doesn’t respect them.</p><hr/><p>In the carriage back to the Tahan estate, Wilde can tell he’s losing what little energy he’d had earlier in the day. Putting on a pretty face for the office had thoroughly exhausted him, and he’s uncharacteristically quiet all the way back. Luck is still on his side though, somehow, because everyone else in the carriage is trying to recover from their earlier social faux pas and none of them pay any attention to the glazed look settling over Wilde’s eyes.</p><hr/><p>He leaves the estate that evening, avoiding everyone but the servants and guards, and heads into Cairo proper. The cleric acting as a greeter at the temple of Aphrodite welcomes him warmly and shows him to Eren Fairhands. Wilde explains the situation with the Heart of Aphrodite, that his team will be arriving with the artifact and Fairhands will be expected to heal Sasha and then return the artifact to the Meritocratic Forces.</p><p>Fairhands agrees to hi terms, the proper paperwork is filled out, and Wilde’s official business is concluded. On to unofficial business. He tells Fairhands he’s been having trouble with nightmares, and needs something to induce a dreamless sleep. He dodges specifics as best he can, asking for a home remedy over an in-house diagnosis. The elf brings him a potion and instructs him to take it immediately before going to bed, then sends him on his way.</p><hr/><p>Back at the Tahan residence, Wilde goes through whats become his regular evening routine. He hangs up his clothes, using Prestidigitation to remove any wrinkles. Showers, washes his hair. Checks the size of the bags under his eyes and the gauntness that’s begun to take form on his face. Twists his neck as far as he can to inspect the mass of scarred flesh across his back, reflected in the mirror. It’s charred, bloody, smoking slightly. He blinks, and it’s just well healed scar tissue once more.</p><p>He casts a silencing charm on the room and locks the door, then pulls out the potion Fairhands gave him. The clock on the bedside table reads 11:45. <em>Try anything once, </em>he thinks to himself, then downs the potion and lies down. He doesn’t even have time to adjust the blankets before sleep takes him.</p><p>
  <em>Discordant flashes. Atonal noise. Blood and fire. Blood and fire. A dragon roar that changes into a single scream of fury and rage that reverberates deep within Wilde’s bones and seems to shake his very soul.</em>
</p><p>Wilde wakes up screaming. There’s blood on his neck, on the pillow beneath his head. It seems to be coming from his ears. The clock on the bedside table reads 11:47. Wilde hauls himself up and immediately crashes to the floor, legs giving out beneath him. He manages to drag himself to the bag where he’s been keeping his stock of potions, tucked neatly beneath the desk. He downs a healing potion and the bleeding from his ears subsides. Then he clambers into the desk chair and downs an energizing potion. He pulls a pile of papers closer to him, grabs a pen and starts to work. If he can’t sleep, he might as well try to get something done.</p><hr/><p>He’s dragged to the bank for yet another bureaucratic process that he really doesn’t think he needs to be involved in. Grizzop is there waiting in a board room, and the goblin is exactly as hostile as he’s always been. At least its not a particularly scrutinizing kind of hostile. Wilde fidgets and paces, poking around the board room in an effort to keep himself grounded.</p><p>There’s an entirely incomprehensible bit where Sasha and Azu walk out of a wall hauling someone they introduce as Howard Carter and hand over to the bank authorities. After trying to hand him to Wilde, of course. Which, <em>again</em>, is not his job. The man is handsome, and going on about archaeology in a way that Wilde finds rather appealing, but the glares he earns for a small bit of casual flirtation clearly indicate his team’s distaste for that particular conversation. Really, its not as if there’s anything wrong with checking out an archaeologist-turned-bank-robber while on official business at the Cairo Meritocratic Vaults. Ok, maybe there is something wrong with that. They could cut him a little slack though, its not like they do anything to make his job easier.</p><hr/><p>The vaults are complicated in a very boring way, and Wilde tunes out everything except the basic safety instructions. Don’t leave the group, die a horrible death, yada yada. Barbed metal structures undulate just deep enough in the shadows that he’s almost convinced they’re real, until the leading guard walks right through one.</p><p>He doesn’t pay any attention to the vault containing the Heart of Aphrodite. The thing itself isn’t his business, he’s only here as a supervisor. He’s only known Azu about a day but Fairhands was convinced that she’s competent enough to handle this, and she’s got the rest of his team backing her up.</p><hr/><p>They move on to Tesla’s vault. The door opens, revealing the streets of Paris reduced to ash and rubble, remnants of flame still spewing smoke into the hazy orange sky. Wilde blinks, and the hallucination does not go away. His team enters the room, interacting with things he cannot see. He can’t bring himself to enter. There’s a wall of heat at the door and he finds himself frozen to the spot. He can only turn away, looking anywhere but into the vault, closing his eyes and digging his fingernails into his arm.</p><p>One of the guards, assuming he’s nauseous from the planar shift, hands his a handkerchief. He accepts it, and wipes the cold sweat from his face. Someone inside the room tries to get his attention, Grizzop maybe. The voice is something to focus on, something real. He spouts some semi-reasonable excuse about Tesla and traps, and his team seems to take it at face value.</p><p>The conversation continues. He’s still mostly running on autopilot and- wait- they’ve stopped talking. Oh shit, what did he say now-</p><p>Suddenly everything comes into focus, starting with the incredibly sharp pain in his nether regions. Grizzop is yelling at him, and he’s crumpled on the floor, but the vault is just a room filled with papers now. He can hear things properly again and actually make out the very angry features of the goblin staring down at him.</p><hr/><p>He doesn’t protest when Azu picks him up and carries him to the bank lobby. Mostly because he’s still in quite a lot of pain. Also because she’s very good at carrying people. Wilde’s starting to think there’s not much Azu isn’t good at. She makes everything feel like its going to be alright. When there’s not terrible visions distorting her face, that is.</p><p>The grating, inhuman voice that keeps finding its way into his mind tells him that it wont be alright. That he’ll keep getting sicker from sleep deprivation. That he’ll die horribly and they wont lift a finger to save him. <em>Fuck you</em>, he tells the voice in his mind. It’s not that he doesn’t believe it. He knows enough about sleep deprivation and this particular group of people to be very confident in those two points. He just hates being told what he already knows.</p><hr/><p>As they enter the lobby area, Wilde makes an executive decision. His vision is swimming again, his legs are shaky beneath him. There’s enough professional guards here and his team is competent enough to manage a simple transportation.</p><p>He walks back to the Tahan residence, mumbles an incoherent greeting to the guards, locks himself in the guest suite and downs another energy potion. His supply is starting to run low, he’s definitely taking them way more than the recommended dosage. The chances of running into an overstressed university student willing to sell him drugs on the Cairo strip seems unlikely at best, and he doesn’t know this city nearly well enough to try his luck on the back streets.</p><p>He remembers the bank vault, how everything had come into focus when Grizzop kicked him. He doesn’t have the stomach for self mutilation, but digging his fingernails into the skin of his arm is easy enough. And it helps, a little. The visions fade and the sounds quiet, and he’s alone in an empty room.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>The nice thing about writing someone plagued with sleep deprivation is I don't need to even try to structure it nicely, this can be a mess because Wilde's a mess. I did look up symptoms of sleep deprivation for this but figured I could kick it up a notch cause curses or whatever.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Crescendo</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>In Damascus, Wilde's sanity starts slipping through his fingers as the clock finally runs out.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Contains: hallucinations, violence, fire, explosions, surreal horror, body horror</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>They’re gone again the next morning. Didn’t even bother checking in, as per usual. Just poof, and no more team. Wilde knows by now not to spend his time wandering hallways, the hours of his life wasted back at Prague University taught him that. Instead, he pulls out the compact mirror imbibed with four tracking spells he’d created after meeting the team for the first time.</p><p>The compact, when activated, shows four coloured sections: yellow, violet, blue and black. Three of the sections contain a line that pulses rhythmically, while the line through the yellow section is flat and unmoving. Magical text appears beside each moving line, shimmering slightly as he focuses. It resolves into strings of numbers, which further resolve into readable text. The black and purple sections read <em>Ratchet Industries, Damascus</em>. He ignores the blue section. He really ought to remove the tracking spell on Zolf, or at least put some tape over it, but he hasn’t had the time.</p><hr/><p>It takes him a day and a half to arrange teleportation to the Damascus local Meritocratic office. When he arrives, a rather disgruntled receptionist shows him to an office filled quite literally to the brim with paperwork.</p><p>“This is for you, courtesy of Ratchet Industries.” The receptionist scowls at him and returns to her desk. Presumably she’s been on duty when the delivery had arrived and was holding quite the grudge.</p><hr/><p>Wilde manages to dig out the chair and clear a barely-functional workspace on the desk. He shuts the door to the office, downs his last energizing potion, and begins the extremely tedious task of combing through the mess his team has given him.</p><p>It’s rough going. He has no idea what he’s supposed to be doing with all of these records, and every time he closes his eyes he can see burning buildings and flame streaked skies. His ears are ringing with echoes of dragon roars, undercut by many whispering voices that are incomprehensible but filled with malice. Barbed metal twists around him and sinks into his flesh, and the pain feels oddly distant in a somewhat familiar way.</p><p>He’s been at this for hours, and managed to sort about a quarter of the pile into a reasonable system. Still no idea why in hell he’s doing this, but it’s become quite meditative and thankfully distracts him from the hallucinations. HR goes here, shipping goes there. Make sure the dates are in order. Ignore the blood, it’s not real. Inventory goes here, material requisitions go there. The pile isn’t actually on fire, it just looks like it is.</p><hr/><p>The night watchman knocks on the door.</p><p>“Sorry to disturb you Mr. Wilde- Oh!”</p><p>He looks shocked as Wilde opens the door. He has no idea how bad he looks, but based on the man’s expression he can make a damn good guess.</p><p>“Yes, what is it?” Wilde asks impatiently.</p><p>“Um, have you... slept, sir?” The watchman’s shock is replaced with concern.</p><p>“That’s not important. What did you want?”</p><p>The watchman recovers his composure and clears his throat.</p><p>“Right. There’s some people here to see you sir. A halfling and an orc, and they say it’s important.”</p><p>“Oh. Lovely. Well, I’d hate to keep them waiting.” Wilde sighs, deeply.</p><p>The watchman leads Wilde towards the reception area. Wilde casts a quick Prestidigitation and a subtle glamour, and the guard gives him an impressed nod.</p><hr/><p>Hamid and Azu are a whirlwind of information with very little context. He tries his best to be reprimanding about the completely ridiculous tasks they’ve dropped on him, and Hamid responds with a glowing smile and a bag of holding filled with ciphered records. He’s barely got the faculties to hear everything they’re telling him, let alone process it.</p><p>He almost collapses into his chair, dropping his head into his hands and digging his fingernails into his scalp. The mild pain helps Hamid’s voice swim into focus. Nothing he says sounds relevant in the slightest, until ‘warehouses full of simulacra’. That particular buried lead is enough to jumpstart Wilde’s brain. As is the next thing Hamid says, a list of Barret Racket’s Meritocratic moles.</p><p>It would make sense. Things haven’t been lining up quite right, and not just because Wilde is slowly losing his mind. Other agents have noticed the conflicting orders, the disparities, the disorganization. Wilde’s paranoia can mostly be attributed to the hallucinations that plague him, but knowing that there’s actually something wrong in the Meritocracy helps him to sort out the imagined concerns from the real.</p><p>He sends Hamid and Azu off and gets to work contacting Cairo. If what they’ve said is true, better to be safe than sorry and the only thing powerful enough to ensure total destruction of an area is a dragon.</p><hr/><p>Several hours later, Wilde’s arrangements are complete. Apophis will arrive soon and... shit. His team is still at the site and he needs to verify their claims. There’s a hint of oddly sinister laughter in the back of his mind as he realizes that he’s forgotten this extremely important detail.</p><p>Wilde gets a teleport to Clank Industries, nearly gets shot by Grizzop, and attempts to usher him and Sasha down the mountain to a safe distance. He’d much rather be nowhere near here, and panic is taking form in his chest and his throat as he remembers the last time he saw a dragon level an area.</p><p>Grizzop and Sasha are yelling at him for not thinking to bring a horse or carriage, not nearly taking this seriously enough when they meet Hamid and Azu on the road. The halfling is knockout drunk, and Azu is explaining Damascus’ labour politics to the others when Sasha gets their attention and points to a spot in the sky.</p><p>Apophis appears over the horizon, steadily growing nearer and... everything seems to... shift. The clamour of his companions is drowned out by a roar that shakes Wilde to his core. He’s frozen in place, watching the dragon approach. Brass becomes gold and clear blue sky becomes angry red. He’s flung through the air as the shockwave hits and slammed against the ground.</p><p>He doesn’t know where he is. He sees Paris buildings surrounding him, burning, crumbling. Eiffel’s Folly looms above, massive and golden and flaming. He can’t breathe, smoke scorches his throat and curls into his lungs. His companions stagger to their feet and Wilde can only hope he recast his glamour quick enough to avoid suspicion.</p><hr/><p>The former site of Crank Industries is a scene from a nightmare. Wilde’s nightmares, specifically. All heat and haze and twisted metal. He ignores the golden monstrosity that melts and reconstructs itself, standing storeys taller than the real Eiffel’s Folly ever did. He keeps back a bit, letting the others lead. It’s impossible to tell which jagged glass structures are real and which are hallucinations, best to let the ones who can tell what’s what go ahead of him.</p><p>He spends the night staring at the glass disc. His team doesn’t bother setting a watch, who in their right mind would come up here after a dragon had levelled the factory? They sleep, and he sits, back up against the sole standing tree this close to the blast radius. It’s a bit on fire, up near the top. The heat doesn’t bother him as much as it should. The bloodstain creeping around his shirt doesn’t bother him as much as it should. Grizzop bothers him plenty, but he’s asleep so that doesn’t really matter right now.</p><p>He lets his team sleep. Hamid and Sasha had made a fuss about being awake for 36 hours, and he didn’t feel the need to incur any further wraths. He also didn’t feel the need to let them know he’s approaching 168 hours awake. He’s been yelled at enough tonight, best to just get things done.</p><hr/><p>They wake up around midday. The sun is high in the sky and the haze rising from the glass has diminished. The appalled stares he gets from Sasha and Grizzop as they notice the state he’s in prompt him to actually check what state he’s in. He pulls out a mundane compact and- wow. That’s... worse than he’d thought. He’d been avoiding mirrors ever since he’d seen an endless oblivion filled with distant dying stars stretching away in the ornately gilded mirror in the Tahan guest ensuite, and his looks had gone from bad to worse.</p><p>His eyes are bloodshot, and wet with what could be tears or blood, he can’t tell. The circles under those eyes are a dark grey, much larger than they had been last time he’d checked. His cheeks are shallow and gaunt, when did he last eat? Breakfast before the Meritocratic Vaults? Surely he’d eaten since then. Probably he’d eaten since then.</p><p>His hair is a mess, uneven and slightly singed. He’d been casting illusions in lieu of trimming it, hadn’t had time for proper grooming since before.... Anyway. The burnt parts had started to grow out but the overall look could only be described as horrific. His clothes are rumpled and dirty, but he can’t really be held responsible for that. He has been sitting on the ground all night.</p><p>He casts a Prestidigitation, and a minor illusion over everything makeup can’t hide. Grizzop gives him a look that he’s very much not fond of. Being scrutinized by those massive scarlet eyes is quite the unpleasant experience.</p><p>Wilde’s expecting another dressing down in line with the whole carriage debacle, but instead the paladin... asks if he wants to sit this one out? What? Yes, of course he knows they’re professionals! What? Literally 12 hours ago they were yelling at him for not doing his job well enough, and here he is just trying to get this done so he can figure out what to do next, and that’s not good enough for them? They’re so confusing, this team. Even without the fuzz that’s been slowly establishing itself in his mind and creeping into his senses, he has a hard time understanding them.</p><p>He shakes off the confusion. Get this done, deal with weird contradictory paladins later. He doesn’t bother imagining a universe in which these people care whether he lives or dies. It’s always been easier that way. Although what with the dissolving chain of command and the Meritocratic offices becoming more of a mess than he is, he might have become a lot less redundant that he’d previously assumed.</p><hr/><p>‘Breakfast’ is... interesting. Sasha is making something he can only describe as an egg mess on the still-superheated glass, and Azu has come over to sit next to him. She doesn’t share the others’ kneejerk reaction to his abrasive behaviour, and she tries to give him some sappy speech about taking care of himself. Maybe it would’ve worked if things were different. If he could actually sleep. If he couldn’t feel his sanity drifting ever further from his grasp. If that horrible voice wasn’t whispering in his mind, telling him that she doesn’t mean it, really. That they’ll only care about his physical state as long as hes useful. That the moment that usefulness runs out they’ll abandon him like his superiors are abandoning him.</p><p>He’s long since lost the ability to make nice, and he fully expects Azu and Sasha to ignore him after he lashes out at them. He expects a lot of things these days. A lot of things that don’t end up happening the way he imagines. Sasha joins him and Azu at the edge of the glass and hands him some of the egg mess on a biscuit, which has actually turned out quite good. He forces himself to eat and even manages to keep it down, despite the emerging nausea that’s the only concrete sensation he’s had all day.</p><p>Waiting is boring, and Wilde needs something to distract himself from the burning tower that now centres itself in his vision no matter where he looks. He quickly learns that neither Azu nor Sasha share his penchant for wordplay and Azu, while probably the most genuinely lovely person he’s ever met, just does not get the point of the complex punning he enjoys.</p><p>After about 20 minutes of just rattling off puns, Sasha tries to join in. Her wordplay is weak, but the way she grins when he compliments a turn of phrase is infectious. They trade puns for a bit and Wilde finds himself feeling almost... better? The hallucinations and the fatigue are still there, but he’s smiling and laughing for real and he’s in the best mood he’s had since Paris.</p><hr/><p>As all things must, it comes to an end. Hamid re-emerges from the pipe and fills them in on what he and Grizzop found at the other end. Sasha and Azu pack up and join Hamid, and Wilde explains that he’ll head back to Damascus and clear things up with the local populace regarding Apophis razing a section of the mountainside. Compared to the nice time he’s just had with Sasha and Azu, Hamid is grating in a way that sets his teeth on edge. Or maybe that’s just the hallucination that’s turned his eyes into black pits and his voice into an unnatural growl.</p><p>Wilde’s gotten quite irritated with his team feigning concern for him, and can’t help playing the part of the dramatic asshole. He casts an illusion spelling out, quite literally, with accompanying pyrotechnics, that he’s fine and would they just <em>stop asking already</em>. He doesn’t turn around as he walks off towards the city, and he can imagine Hamid and Sasha flipping him off as he goes.</p><hr/><p>Damascus is chaos. Not Paris levels of chaos, just the nervous energy that lingers in the air after the entire population of a city has seen a dragon decimate a nearby industrial factory. It’s similar to the energy in Versailles after Guivres levelled Eiffel’s Folly, where Wilde’s injuries had been healed before he left France for Prague. Although, Apophis’ fallout had been considerably less destructive.</p><p>Wilde makes his way to the Meritocratic offices, checks in with the receptionist, gives the mayor a quick update and heads back to his paperwork. He feels like he’s forgetting something important. The walls swim around him, and the conversations of office staff nearby sound much further away than they should.</p><p>He makes it to his office and manages to sit in his chair without falling, an impressive feat given that he doesn’t seem to have legs any more. The papers on his desk are covered in twisting black shapes that crawl from page to page and climb up his hands when he tries to catch them. There’s a red haze creeping into the edges of his vision, closing in around him. The voice that’s been haunting him for days, the one that sounds like claws on a chalkboard, whispers in his mind once more. <em>Goodbye, Mr. Wilde, </em>it tells him. <em>Remember that you could have saved yourself</em>. His vision is entirely obscured by the red haze, and he doesn’t feel it when his head hits the desk.</p><hr/><p>
  <em>He’s floating. He feels nothing. It is cold here. He’s been so warm lately, the cold is a relief. Why has he been so warm? He cannot remember. He can only recall the sensation, not the context. It is peaceful here. There is no pain. No exhaustion. No fire, no metal. Just a soft, still red ocean.</em>
</p><p>
  <br/>
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</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><hr/><p>
  <em>His peace is getting less peaceful. It’s as if there’s something tugging him upwards, towards the surface of the fluid he floats in. It pulls him higher and higher, and the world grows sharper and sharper. The red ocean churns around him, angry. He remembers the shape of his body as sensations begin to return to it. His chest is tight, and he struggles to breathe. His head is on fire, the pain concentrated behind his eyes and inside his ears. He feels heavy, so very heavy.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>There’s a voice calling to him. A slap on his cheek, someone shaking his shoulders. This is familiar. Memories bubble up from the deep well that is his mind. Zolf, Sasha. A locksmith’s shop. But the voice isn’t right, its higher, more... abrasive.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Warmth spreads across his body, and his lungs loosen, and Grizzop’s voice comes into focus and his eyelids are so heavy but he can almost-</em>
</p><p>Wilde opens his eyes. He’s still in his office, still on his chair, sitting upright. Grizzop is holding his head and staring directly into his eyes. A bit to his left stands the cleric of Dionysus that Wilde had seen around the Meritocratic office building, and slightly behind them stands an orc who looks incredibly uncomfortable.</p><p>There’s a puddle of blood on the desk, and Grizzop is yelling at him and gesturing to it. He’s asking Wilde what’s wrong with him, why was he unconscious, why was he bleeding? Wilde can barely manage single sentence answers, can’t quite manage to keep himself from slumping. The cleric casts another healing spell on him, and aside from the slight warm sensation in his chest he feels nothing.</p><hr/><p>Grizzop bodily drags him to the local temple of Artemis and sits him down in one of their treatment rooms. A gnome cleric comes in, looks him over, and speaks to Grizzop for a moment. He’s not paying any attention to what they’re saying. The red haze is still there, and the sky outside the barred window is a pitch black void peppered with distant dying stars. There are discordant whispers rising in volume until they create a cacophony of noise. They are angry, so much angrier than they had been before. As if a prize was being snatched from their grasp.</p><p>The cleric places a hand on his forehead and casts a spell, and Wilde falls asleep.</p><p>
  <em>A black eyed halfling just barely recognizable as Hamid digs claws into his throat and incinerates him with flames that emerge from its mouth. A shadowy silhouette that won’t quite solidify plunges a knife into his torso, slipping cold steel between his ribs. Monstrous reflections of his team tear him apart while screaming with unnatural fury.</em>
</p><p>He jolts awake. The room is no longer made of grey stone, now it’s solid obsidian lined with rusted iron bars. Grizzop is yelling at the cleric and both of them have black pits lit with dying stars for eyes. The cleric places his hand back on Wilde’s forehead, and his own eyes roll backwards.</p><p>
  <em>Barbed wire wraps around him. It coils around his limbs and digs in, tearing his flesh. Rust flakes off the metal to reveal pure untarnished gold, and the wires pull tighter. A figure stands before him. He cannot see its eyes under the hood it wears. As it moves closer to him, it transforms.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>First a tall woman with sharp teeth, dressed in an elegant black dress. Then a massive, hulking figure wearing obsidian armour that reflects the starlit sky. Then a stocky dwarf commanding a wave of shadow that crashes around him. Then a halfling in an impeccable black suit, carrying colourless fire in his hands. Then a slim silhouette that tilts her head slightly, sizing him up for the kill. Then </em>
  <em>an armoured goblin with eyes blacker than his skin and sharp metal teeth</em>
  <em>. Then a tall, powerful orc who bares her tusks </em>
  <em>and roars, not an orcish roar but the hideous screams of fury he’s heard in his nightmares so many times before.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Finally, a tall cowled figure stands before Wilde. It towers over him, and leans down. Its hood is inches from his face and he can feel its cold breath. It whispers in a hoarse voice that could never come from a humanoid mouth.</em>
</p><p>“<em>You cannot escape us, Oscar Wilde. We know where you are. We will find you, and we will destroy you, and we will take everything you love and destroy it as well.”</em></p><p>
  <em>The cowl lifts to reveal an empty void. No, not empty. A void that radiates hatred and fury so strongly that Wilde reels from it, trying desperately to shield himself but the void is all around him and it is consuming him and it is a part of him and-</em>
</p><p>Wilde wakes up crumpled on a granite floor, his head supported by Grizzop’s arms. The chair he’d been sitting in is on its side, and has become a spiked and rusted metal monstrosity. He can’t hear anything the paladin is saying, and he can’t feel the ground beneath him. When he blinks he sees the rage-filled void that lives behind his eyes.</p><hr/><p>A pair of clerics escort him to a cell beneath the temple. The bars in the cell block tear from their housing and burrow beneath his skin. Everyone’s eyes are black pits, even his own. The floor is molten glass and the room fills with smoke and he’s so dizzy. Are the walls swaying, or is that him?</p><p>One of the clerics is carrying him, and their hands are sharp and their voice is far away. They lay him down on a cot and... the world shifts. It’s not right, exactly, but it’s less... sharp. Less angry, less spiteful. The walls still twist around him but they’re only grey stone and steel. The eyes of the cleric by his side are a gentle blue. The cleric lays a hand softly on his forehead and whispers a spell, and Oscar Wilde falls into a deep dreamless sleep.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Something something pulled from the brink of death by an angry goblin who hates you, but not enough to let you die in a puddle of your own blood in an office building you don't technically work at.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Epilogue</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>For those of you wondering what might've happened to Wilde after his entire team vanished off the face of the earth.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Contains: mentions of death<br/>Also Einstein.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It’s been a month since Grizzop left for Rome. Wilde hasn’t heard anything from his team. He’s been making plans for a backup team, locating people that could be useful, if they can still be trusted. Carter’s already been brought on, and he has a few leads on Zolf’s location. The compact mirror containing his tracking spells sits heavy in his pocket, useless to him without magic. He’s combing through reports of freak storms off the nearby coast when a loud <em>POP</em> startles him.</p>
<p>“Hello! Please don’t arrest me!”</p>
<p>There’s a very old man with wild hair and wilder eyes standing directly in front of him, leaning over his desk. Wilde recognizes him from a portrait he’d seen at Prague University. Albert Einstein.</p>
<p>“Um, hello. What are you doing here?” Wilde asks.</p>
<p>“Don’t arrest me! I mean, if you arrest me I’ll just leave, but like, don’t.”</p>
<p>Wilde stares at the man in confusion, then nods cautiously.</p>
<p>“Good! Right, right. Um. This is awkward.” Einstein pulls back from his desk and glances around the room.</p>
<p>“Please just spit it out. Why are you here?” Wilde sighs and puts a hand to his temple.</p>
<p>“Why am I here... Right! Right. The others, they told me if they didn’t come back I had to tell you. You are Oscar Wilde, right?”</p>
<p>“Yes. Wait, which others told you that? Come back from where?”</p>
<p>Wilde’s almost had enough of this man’s incomprehensible way of talking and is about to try to remove him from his office, when Einstein interrupts his thoughts.</p>
<p>“The others! You know, Azu and Grizzop and Sasha and Hamid? Those others. They specifically said if they don’t come back in a month I have to tell Oscar Wilde- that’s you- that they’re gone. And I have to tell their families. I’m really not looking forward to that-”</p>
<p>Wilde cuts him off, grabbing Einstein by the shoulders.</p>
<p>“Wait, go back. Come back from where? Rome?”</p>
<p>“Ah... no. They went into a... well.... they went into a broken Gate spell looking for the hostages and never came out.”</p>
<p>Wilde freezes. His carefully practised composure slips through his fingers like water, and his face falls. He collapses into his desk chair and slumps. Gone. They’re gone. A broken Gate, in Rome of all places. There’s no way anyone could survive that.</p>
<p>“Eh, look. I’m going to keep checking in to see if they turn up, but ah, um. Don’t get your hopes up. Rome is a very bad place. Bad things happen there.”</p>
<p>Einstein clumsily pats Wilde on the shoulder. Wilde pulls himself together as best he can, sitting up straight and fixing his tie.</p>
<p>“Right then. Thank you for informing me of the situation. Good luck with the rest of your...” He trails off, unsure how to phrase ‘informing people that their loved ones are either dead or trapped in an interdimensional plane’. Einstein gives him an odd look, then a wonky salute and vanishes with a yelled “Good-bye!”.</p>
<p>Wilde turns to his paperwork. <em>There will be time for mourning</em>, he tells himself. There will be time to grieve. But before then, he needs to execute his backup plans. It’s time to build a new team.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Alright, that's this one done. The editing is probably shoddy because I was too impatient to do a third scan through, but I'll admit I don't particularly care. I'm just doing this for fun, not to make something super polished or good or whatever.</p>
<p>Also yes I am a bit of a sadist why do you ask.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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